


Miss Aubergine's mischievous cat and a dreadful scarcity of strawberries

by TotemundTabu



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Cats, Frain - Freeform, M/M, Quickie, also food porn, but my gf wanted porn, francis is a dork in this one, god bless, it was not suppose to happen they shouldn't have had it, past!fruk, so they had a, they have a quickie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-10
Updated: 2015-11-10
Packaged: 2018-04-30 21:48:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5180921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TotemundTabu/pseuds/TotemundTabu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After an awful break-up, Francis leaves Paris to finish his recipe book. At the seaside, he meets a young boy, fresh as summer evenings and as beautiful as sassy . - Frain | Dork!Francis | Little Kitten is a disaster | Quickie | Past!FrUK</p>
            </blockquote>





	Miss Aubergine's mischievous cat and a dreadful scarcity of strawberries

This fic is CHEESY, sappy, all the romantic tropes of the case, stupidly sugary, an arriving diabetic rush, guys. Hold tight for the fluffiest smut Frain fic. Dedicated to my girlfriend, whom I miss horribly.

 

* * *

**Miss Aubergine's mischievous cat and a dreadful scarcity of strawberries**

 

* * *

 

The refreshing azure of the morning sky welcomed him in the new day. Francis blinked slowly, still bothered by the diffused light; he held his head and groaned in annoyance, then, resigned, went to the small kitchen to pour some cold water into a glass.

He was not a morning person, despite having got hugely better at it with ages passing, and he for sure hated waking up very early when he spent the night before drinking.

It was not completely his fault, all be told, but of the two delicious girls who followed him home right after the evening. He could still taste in the corner of his mouth, the lipstick of one of them and on his skin the perfume of the other.

He scratched his neck, still sleepy, trying to focus on that weird feeling that popped up in the back of his mouth: nostalgia of red, maybe just of his sister or of the times in which love existed and inhabited his heart, maybe he missed Paris, maybe he missed himself.

He wished for strawberries, but the fridge was half empty and, brushing his golden hair with his fingers, tried to force himself to wake up. The dream he had seemed to want to hold him back, with its evil grin, its lost promises and the sweetest and most lethal smile.

Two months passed since the last time they talked.

Arthur left without leaving another trace to Francis than the sensation of his skin peel, dead. He chuckled.

He got too close to the sun, he got burnt.

Love, after all, was really to forget fire can hurt and not just bring a soft warmth.

Arthur went away without a word more than “it's over”, slamming the door, yelling as usual and as usual, being self-righteous, bratty, deaf to anyone's heart but his own. A kid. He was always a kid.

But there was a time when Francis found it charming: Arthur's tenderness, his fears, his inability to understand himself, even his selfishness. He found it endearing, even cute.

He didn't predict he would have got cut by it, nor so deep.

Uneven edges, infected, burning – the wound didn't seem to heal the slightest.

He didn't miss Arthur anymore, oh, well, sometimes maybe he did, at night, when lamplights were yellow as the night of their first kiss, or when he saw a child with bright malachite eyes like he had. Maybe he did, sometimes. But not in a loving way, not with a deeply felt motion of need.

It was more the lingering shadow of a stupid habit he was getting rid of.

He was going away from him, washed from rain and time and all the anger extinguished, slowly but unavoidably, until it started to became indifference.

Monique called him a couple of days before, to tell him Arthur looked sad and Francis found himself not caring. He was not even angry, he just didn't care.

That was, after all, why he left Paris for that holiday: forgetting him easily, leaving him behind, not having an awkward crossing in the street, meeting at the usual café, sharing a look they'd both regret and ruin their day with.

He put the ring in the trashcan. He didn't throw it, he let it slide in it, slowly; then he took his typewriter, a suitcase with enough clothes and he left. He drove until he reached the Spanish coast and then, then he met Miss Aubergine.

Miss Aubergine was a sweet woman in her eighties with no teeth of her own still in her mouth and hands like crumpled silk. She lived in a big house with two floors and she decided to rent the upper one to tourists who wanted to spend some weeks at the beach without paying for an extra expensive hotel room.

The woman was barely home and deaf as a post, but Francis made sure to avoid her meeting the girls he brought in for the night not to embarrass them nor her. It's not like he would have seen any of them for more than one night, anyway – he didn't plan to. 

He wanted to focus on finishing that goddamn book, then take care of his own needs, find himself as a person again and... and all that useless blah blah.

He sighed, taking out of the fridge the ingredients to make some breakfast, when he felt something soft, warm... fuzzy next to his leg.

“Good morning, meow.”

The cat closed its eyes to Francis, raising its head in a greeting.

“How is it today? - he chuckled, taking the milk and looking at the cat following him around, his little paws dancing at the idea of the treat he was going to get – You know, they say most cats are lactose intolerant but that's clearly not your case.”

The cat confirmed with a loud meow.

Francis laughed, took a small dish and poured some milk so that his newly found flatmate could enjoy it. The cat purred loudly at him, while the Frenchman enjoyed some coffee.

Bata was Miss Aubergine's cat and it was one of the softest creatures Francis had ever met, with orange ears on a snowy fur and huge eyes of the colour of the sky. Bata was friendly, yet mischievous and his most known hobbies were eating cables, hiding pencils and stealing food. Miss Aubergine told him one day that the cat reminded her of her grandson as a child and Francis tasted that tender confession in his soul, treasuring it and, since then, trying to imagine the little child, playing around, happy and restless in a world without borders given by time; to his grandmother, that child would have been eternally living, despite age capturing and seizing the real person, she wouldn't have forgotten him, she wouldn't have let the memory of that innocence and sweetness disappear from the world, even if she had to find it in a little pet.

A ring seemed to awake him from his thoughts and, with his chest naked, the unshowered lipstick still on him and the ruffled bedhead, he went to open the door.

In front of him, Adonis candidate 2015, obviously. He quickly passed from a puzzled expression to the smoothest smile he could use, but the guy didn't seem interested and, with a quick blind, furrowed his eyebrows.

“Is it a bad moment?”

“It's never a bad moment for you.” he commented, his accent thick through his basic Spanish.

“Flattering.”

The guy laughed a bit, quite amused, hiding his face. He had a bit of an aquiline nose, tanned skin shimmering in the sun like amber and... Eyes as green as fresh grass under the rain. Francis blinked, a knot tightening in his stomach.

The guy put in his hands a tiny basket full of... aubergines, oh right. 

Francis chuckled. Miss Miras Carriedo had a soft spot for aubergines and every two or three days she would receive some from the market. Then that guy must have been working for the greengrocer.

“Do you mind taking it to the granny, lipstick boy?”

Francis sighed heavily and smiled, slightly embarrassed, “Bad impression, uh. - he lowered his lip a bit, clenching the teeth – I'm sorry.”

“It's fine. - the guy smiled – It was the nicest I've got this month.”

The corners of Francis' mouth bent in the most demented expression, as he saw completely in the light the face of the boy. Well, wasn't he-

“Fran, Fran! - he heard a voice from behind – When are you going to return? We're lonely up here!”

The guy laughed a bit, sardonically, but Francis seemed just embarrassed, while he gave her a confident, “I'm arriving, give me a second. Waiting whets the appetite,  _pétite_ .”

“Smooth.” the guy mouthed silently.

Francis gave the most awkward smile he had since he’d been thirteen, and snorted – no, fuck, fuck it, he hadn’t snorted in years, why now – and a hoarse “Girls of today, no fantasy! The lesbian community would be disappointed.” exited his throat, all crumpled.

The boy laughed, this time really heartfelt, putting a finger near his eyes as if he was about to cry.

“How... terrible was this encounter from one to ten, just so I know?”

“I'll totally write it on my blog. - he winked, jokingly – Thank you for the aubergines.”

“Than...thank you, mh...”

“Tonio.” he smiled, returning to the small shining red motor scooter. He put on his helmet and Francis thought it was surely a crime to hide that face.

“Ah, I'm...”

“Fran Fran, right?”

The Frenchman couldn't see his expression and felt slightly hurt, still pending on those lips he couldn't see anymore, wondering what that cute greengrocer boy might have been thinking of him and what a fool he had made of himself.

He snorted, god damn him.

Miss Miras Carriedo arrived home only in the late afternoon and, somehow, looked in a pretty good mood. She asked Francis of her aubergines, petted the cat and asked if he needed any help with the laundry – which he found weird, but in a nice, motherly way. He decided to use the rest of the day to take a walk; normally he would have dedicated the afternoon to writing his cookbook, but he couldn't stop wishing for strawberries and, after the girls left, he felt uninspired.

He never cooked anything fancy when he was alone. It was a waste to him, unless, obviously, it was about learning a recipe for someone perfectly. That was also why, since some days, he was stuck.

The sky was cloudless; a tender, salty breeze caressed the trees, light tenderly embracing the sun slowly meeting the sea. Azure turning to orange, coldness to warmth.

Briny, balsamic, the air and the beach welcomed the tired sea waves, abandoning themselves in the danced tide of the evening. As the water wore her best ball gown of the darkest blue, the sun fired up with red, melting into it, drowning in its embrace, as a lover who finally finds home.

Francis was walking slowly on the woodened boardwalk over the sand, hands in his pockets, teeth on his lips.

As couples danced, one holding the waist of the other, laughing in the street, Francis could feel his heart clench and hurt as if ground.

He sighed, raising his hand and looking at it. He could see the light sign of where the ring used to be.

He bought it for himself.

Arthur was firmly against any type of commitment or promises, he wouldn't even introduce him to his parents, but he kept saying Francis was a manwhore and manwhores couldn’t be trusted, so Francis bought himself a ring, a big, visible ring. It was a wedding ring to him.

… he was just waiting for Arthur to ask for one for himself.

But it never happened; he never even tried to pretend he cared.

Francis felt bitterness, like a tide of sickness, catch him. Sure, he was not hard to sleep with, but he never cheated and he... he was in love. He wouldn't have cheated on Arthur, but he decided “why not? He'll feel safe, if I wear this”.

A collar.

That's what it was: a collar.

A chain, not because it had been constricting, but because it had been visible and only on one of them. A humiliating stop sign only for one of them. A neon sign pointing at the one more involved with the other.

The warmth of the sunset couldn't reach him anymore. He felt ice stab his heart and make it stone.

And, then, again, he was the one wearing the signs, he was the one with the proof of a felt love, while Arthur was free, spotless, immaculate for the world to see. Untouched.

Yeah, he never managed to really shake Arthur, to touch his soul.

Not that he craved any kind of power, but he was left broken by someone who barely got cracked.

He was debris, Arthur chipped.

He didn't care anymore, nor did it hurt, but there was something alienating in knowing he lost all the love he felt. He felt powerless. 

Maybe, after all, love in itself was not worth much.

“Hey, what's with the long face?”

Francis raised his head but didn't see anyone in front of him, turned quickly but... had he maybe imagined it?

“I'm here! - a voice shouted and Francis saw him: on the beach, sitting in the sand, with a big smile – Did the ladies say goodbye?”

Francis laughed, recognizing him, but didn't move closer.

“That was the plan since the start.”

“Oh... - Antonio whistled but he didn't seem impressed – You are quite the lady killer, aren't you?”

“I'm French, comes with the birth certificate.”

He laughed, then showed Francis a case of beer, “Care to help me with this sixer?”

Francis chuckled, hands in his pockets, cocky smile, “You totally don't look like an alcoholic.”

“I'm glad. - he mumbled – Approaching children would be otherwise complicated these days.”

Francis shook his head, clacking his tongue against the palate while a smile widened on his face. He was also funny, fuck the timing of the universe.

He descended slowly and sat on a rock, avoiding the sand. The guy noticed and raised an eyebrow, but didn't comment and Francis didn’t' feel like explaining to him that that white suit was expensive and fancy and he used to wear it a lot, before Arthur told him he looked too flashy in it.

Antonio handed him a bottle, cold condensed on it, chilled as if it had just came out of the fridge. Francis started drinking it, eagerly, thirsty. 

He quite disliked beer; he considered himself a sweet drinker, so wine was his favourite, or maybe a fruit liqueur. To him, beer was the drink of abandonment, of when being himself was tiring and he just wished of a summer evening in the body and mind of someone else. 

He drank it with the desire with which he would have drunk a magic potion, letting out a deep breath of relief as he separated himself from the bottle. He closed his eyes, his heart still lingering on the chance, the chance to lose himself.

He smiled to Antonio, “Thank you...”

He observed the guy, drinking, his Adam's apple following the sweet goldened current, his lips full around the bottle, a drop of alcohol caressing the side of his neck.

“So, goldilocks, what makes you so sad?”

“Nothing special. - he shrugged – Usual stuff.”

“A princess to forget?”

“A prince.”

Antonio blinked, observing Francis. “Uh, an ambidextrous.”

Francis chuckled, “I didn't hear that one in a while...”

“Offended?”

“It's the less offensive title I've got in six years.” he mumbled.

“Then I’ll consider the debt of today paid. - he smiled, then hit Francis slightly, shoulder against shoulder – Even if now I am slightly offended you didn't comment my best asset.”

Francis raised an eyebrow, confused, “Are there bad ones?”

“I didn't say that. - Antonio precised, moving a bit his finger around – Even if I must admit, I did consider a penis reduction once.”

Francis laughed extremely loudly. He could feel his lungs burn and pressure, his ribcage hurt and his stomach tense. He just bent forward and laughed for a whole minute.

Antonio smiled, pleased, “I'm glad you understood I was sarcastic, you wouldn't believe how many people asked for inches after... - he sipped a bit – By the way, I meant the ass.”

“I didn't look at it. - Francis admitted – I was kind of star struck by the face.”

“Isn't it a bit too much of a baby face?”

Francis shrugged, “The eternal charm of younger lovers, I guess: they make you feel like the best thing they ever had and you know it's true.”

“Ah, well, I'm sorry but you are definitely younger than me, lipstick boy.”

“Excuse me? - the Frenchman chuckled – I know my beauty can be blinding, but...”

“How old are you?”

“Twenty-six.” Francis confessed, in a low voice, as if he was a bit ashamed.

Antonio grinned like if the Cheshire cat and the Joker fused into the most powerfully grinning grin ever grinned. Ramsay Bolton looked reassuring next to it.

Victorious, he whispered, “Twenty-eight, lipstick boy.”

“Did you fucking bathe in the eternal youth spring? - Francis dropped his jaw – How?”

“Healthy food, jogging each day... nah, joking, it's all in the DNA, I'm a lucky motherfucker.”

“I hate you.” Francis admitted, pouting.

Antonio laughed and opened another two bottles of beer, handing one to his new friend. 

“So, prince didn't leave your head despite four D cups?”

“How do you know?”

“You look like the kind of guy who likes to sink his face into boobs, no offence.”

“None taken. - he mumbled – Also bottoms, sometimes.”

Antonio nodded solemnly, “Now, now, I guess I can forgive you for your outrage of before.”

Francis smiled, smug, “Well, why don't you stand up so I can look at this eighth wonder of the world?”

“Now it's too easy, no, you have to contemplate it when we separate, looking at it lovingly and longingly knowing you let it pass you by... and disappear in the horizon... dramatic music in the background.”

Francis chuckled, closing his eyes, his stomach still a bit hurt from laughing before, “Should I take this as you would have actually let me have it? Despite the awful introduction?”

“The lipstick was off-putting, I won't lie. - he sipped his beer, fresh against his palate while his blood was starting to heat – But you had me as the dork came out.”

“Funny.” Francis said, snarky.

Antonio's eyes lingered on the Frenchman's full rosy lips. He bit his own, suffocating a gut instinct.

“Was he that nice?”

“Who? - Francis asked, as if he had just woken up, lost in his thoughts – Oh, oh, Ar... nah, no, he was awful.”

“Then how can he be so hard?”

“Well, you see.. the problem is not he is still in my head, but that he is not in my heart anymore. I washed him away completely and easily and... Quickly...”

“...and you're upset because this is what people dream of?”

“I'm upset because it means my love was... thin, weak, frail. - he admitted, his voice suddenly low, dark with disappointment – It means I let him kill it.”

“Why would it be bad, if it was not worth it?”

Francis was not sure how to answer. He didn't know. He had just always felt that love was the purest goal and the most poetic and colourful part of life. Love was his drug and his cure.

“I don't know... I guess I miss, you know...”

Antonio looked at him, questioning.

Francis' eyes wandered and met the black sky the sea disappeared into, barely visible and only through the pale, milky moonlight reflecting on it, shattered like a broken mirror. The sound, though, remained and so did the scent.

“... the red.”

“The red.” Antonio repeated.

“Yes.” Francis smiled to himself.

A gush of wind shook their hair and the Spaniard smelled the thick French perfume, dense and salty, dark as wood, in his mouth. He closed his eyes and bent towards Francis, catching his lips in his own, tasting the dense, balsamic aftertaste. Haste boiled in his blood, but he didn't dare more than a quick kiss, sucking Francis' lips and then broke it off before deepening it.

As much as he wanted to kiss the other, he knew he could have wanted more after.

Francis moved a bit too late, trying to catch him back, but Antonio smiled, ambiguous, stood up and hummed, “Going home for tonight, lipstick ambidextrous. - he laughed, happily – See you tomorrow!”

Francis' fingers trembled on his lips, brushing them slightly as if he were sacred.

He noticed just then Antonio had a persistent citrus scent.

He found himself hesitant, his heart about to burst with questions and wonder. He returned home lingering in memories, counting the minutes and the hours, sleeping with difficultly but with a serene and light heart. Antonio was the shivers in his spine.

His bed seemed so small and the night so big and Antonio like a mirage.

Had they even met? Did he even exist? Francis was left wondering, bewitched, while petting Bata, who came to sleep on his stomach, like a roll, purring slowly. 

At the break of dawn, Francis went out of the bed, followed by an utterly confused Bata, staring at him as to ask if he became crazy to wake up so much earlier. Francis smiled and went to the kitchen.

He had everything he needed and started.

Creamed eggs and sugar, softly, mixed with the butter, the flour. He caught some lemon liqueur and added it together with a spoon of milk. 

The scent was unconvincing to Bata, who became way more interested when Francis started to use milk and eggs in a creamy liquid that made him lick his small whiskers in anticipation. Francis looked at him, smiled, shook his head and took a smaller dish, a coffee saucer, and put a couple of spoons on it, laying it in front of the feline.

“You're gonna get fat.” he told Bata, but he received a very smug glare as if the cat knew society didn't have rules for the size of pets.

The cream was soft and tender, sweet and refreshing despite the milk – Francis added some lemon zeste and... now, that was perfect. He put it in the fridge, proud to have cooked again something.

When Francis assembled the pastry cream and the cooked crust, it was almost eight o' clock and he sat on the kitchen chair, yawning. He took the typewriter and started to write down the ingredients and the doses, but, somehow, he stopped. Something was missing, he knew it.

A doorbell shook him and Francis rushed to open the door, hoping, with his heart up his throat; as he arrived, he saw a pretty amused miss Aubergine and Antonio hugging. He frowned, panting slightly from the rush.

“H-hey.”

“Hey. - Antonio smiled, eyes shining and the old lady looked at both of them with a weirdly satisfied smirk – I... I've some ...”

“...aubergines.” Francis concluded for him.

“Not only. - Antonio admitted, smiling, as if he found it funny – I, ah, grandma, can you, maybe...”

Francis blinked, perplexed, while Miss Aubergine left the room, humming an old song.

“Is she your-?”

“Can we go up? - Antonio asked, eagerly, interrupting Francis – If you... you don't have visitors...”

“No, no. - he smiled, almost as shy as he didn't remember being, ever, but his legs felt a bit like if marmalade substituted the bones – I don't.”

Antonio took something from behind him. It was a small basket full of strawberries.

Francis blinked, holding it confused.

“You said you missed red so... - his voice sparkled in worry – Fran? Fran, what's up?”

The Frenchman frowned, unsure, he didn't know what was worrying Antonio so much. It was just as he saw a drop on his hands that he realized his eyes were watery, full of tears.

He was not crying desperately obviously, he didn't even feel sad, not really, so why...

He just was so moved. So entendered.

Antonio listened to him, Antonio picked what he wanted without even knowing, just guessing, just to be kind. Francis couldn't remember the last time he felt someone cared about him, except his sister.

Probably nobody did in a very long time.

He swallowed, as a wrinkled laugh came out of his lips.

“I'm sorry, it's just so sweet...”

“It's just strawberries. - Antonio caressed Francis' hand – I expect you to thank me, though.”

Francis smiled, suddenly cocky and smug again, “Are you hungry?”

“Mh?”

“I'm a cookbook author.”

Antonio blinked, “Cookbook like it seems good but it's actually nothing special or cookbook like I will sell my soul to Satan for having this dish forever?”

“The second. - he winked – I've got something these would be gorgeous on.”

When they arrived in the kitchen, Francis washed and cut the strawberries, tasted a couple to make sure they didn't need any correction – Antonio's eyes got lost in the way Francis' lips sucked and devoured the fruit, staining themselves slightly in the purest red – and put them over the pies some almonds. He put them on a dish and served them to Antonio with warm ginger white tea by the side.

Antonio didn't ask permission nor hesitate, he just bit the pie directly, signing it with his teeth.

Francis smiled, seeing his eyes widen in awe.

“Christ!” Antonio mumbled, eating the rest in a bit, munching visibly, impressed, amazed and then turned to Francis again.

He chuckled, handing another pie to Antonio and seeing it end much in the same, quick, ferociously ecstatic way.

Arthur never seemed very enthusiastic about his food, he barely ate it, found it mostly 'too refined' or 'prissy'. He said there was no charm in food for him, it was just fuel to set your muscles on fire and make you work.

When Francis told him about his first cookbook, Arthur scoffed and claimed that for sure there was not much need of more cookbooks in the world and people focused on unnecessary things. Francis laughed weakly, saying it was probably true. Normally, he would have fought back. They would have bickered to hell, smashed dishes and Francis would have been as much of an animal as Arthur... but about cooking, no. He felt just hurt and he discovered that day that naked nerves lead to the heart.

“It's amazing. - Antonio mumbled, mashing the words in his mouth – This thing is the best I've ever eaten... and yes, I'm counting in what you're thinking about.”

Francis laughed genuinely, “Thank you, but it's my job.”

“Well, it's a job I couldn't do.”

“I probably couldn't do yours...”

“Delivery boy?” Antonio started sipping the tea. He reflected on the fact that Francis seemed more the coffee type of person and deduced it was probably connected to the prince guy.

“Waking up early, moving heavy boxes... doesn't sound like me.”

Antonio snorted, “You don't seem weak though.”

“The only physical activity I do is sex. - Francis said, bluntly, his voice slightly flirty – I'm lazier than I look like.”

The Spaniard smiled and looked, furtive, at the French blonde. He was surely lanky, but he seemed to have some slim athletic muscles around, especially on the arms, where the sleeves were rolled up to the elbow. He couldn't stop thinking about how much sex he could have had to develop them just out of that.

He felt a sudden bitter flavour in his mouth.

“Can I have some water?”

“Sure.” Francis smiled, a bit worried due to Antonio's expression, and turned to open the tap, but, suddenly, Bata jumped in the sink, meowing loudly for more milk and he pulled too strong.

The water showered half of Francis' body, a big part of the kitchen and left the cat himself horrified and scared. 

“Bata!” Antonio shouted, coming close to the kitty who was scared, shaking its fur like a dog would.

“It's okay, don't scold him...” Francis commented, moving a bit his hands to get rid at least of the wet on them. God, he was completely drenched.

“I'm sorry, he generally doesn’t...” Antonio fell silent for a moment, while his eyes ran over all of Francis. His lips were parted, observing as the white shirt was now completely attached to Francis' chest and his light blue linen pants became basically transparent. He swallowed hard, feeling his blood rush to his groin.

Francis noticed and a warm gleam shone in his eyes, as, instead of closing the tap, he turned it a bit, showering Antonio.

The Spaniard cursed, surprised, “Is this revenge?” he asked, annoyed yet amused, before being shut up by Francis' lips eagerly burning on his own.

This time he couldn't stop himself from opening his mouth and letting the Frenchman invade it, fill it, up to the brink, with his big tongue, hot and soft against his walls. He moaned into the kiss, Francis taking over him, pulling him closer by the hips – wet shirt against wet shirt, cold water becoming hot, mixing with desire. Antonio's voice grew louder, lewder as Francis left his lips and started to attack his neck, sucking, his teeth sinking into his flesh and their pressure growing.

Antonio felt like all his blood could be sucked by those lips. He felt without strength, his legs trembling, while pleasure took over, his jeans getting way too tight around the crotch.

Francis' mouth seemed to be burning against his neck, his tongue painting the lines of his muscles, his fingers running under his shirt, finding his nipples, fondling his ass.

He chuckled, his voice low, thick with lust, “You're right, your ass is amazing.”

“I... know...” Antonio gulped, labouring to speak.

Francis bit his lips, foretasting the delicious flavour of Antonio's salty skin. He left small kisses on Antonio's collarbones, feeling his heartbeat getting irregular with anticipation.

“You should step out of these wet clothes.”

“I could say the same.” the Spaniard replied, his lips parted in desire.

He put a hand on Francis' cheek, moving his head slowly upper and kissing him on the lips again, this time slower, savouring each other before the haste and urge would lead them to the frenzy. A rush of heat caught Antonio's head as the hand Francis had on his stomach unzipped his jeans and started to caress his crotch.

“F- at least, a bed.”

“That I can concede.” Francis mumbled, interrupting his treat and moving his hand on Antonio's waist, guiding him to the bed. He stood up and started to unbutton his shirt, while Antonio threw away his jeans and shirt, on the double.

Francis took off his pants slowly, his hard-on pressing and pulling the light fabric of the boxers.

Antonio looked for a bottle of lube on the night table and, as he turned, and saw the other naked, he left his mouth agape and cursed himself for the joke of the night before.

“Yeah, no, no. - Antonio commented, staring at it – That thing is not gonna enter in me, forget it.”

“Uh?”

“You're hung, that thing would cut my ass in two.”

Francis laughed, but then noticed Antonio was being serious, “Oh, c'mon...”

Antonio shook his head, firmly, “We can do anything but it, sorry, I like my butt whole and without hemorrhages.”

Francis sighed, rolling his eyes to the ceiling and went on the bed, returning to kiss Antonio, gently, slowly, but with hunger growing in their hearts. Antonio let out a wet moan and Francis smirked in the kiss, stealing the lube bottle from Antonio's hands.

He poured some on his fingers, without interrupting the kiss, instead pushing his tongue deeper into Antonio's throat, making him arch and moan louder. The sound, though, soon got drowned under Francis' tongue, violating every space, taking control of everything. Antonio couldn't lie about that being exactly what he liked.

As they broke the kiss, Francis winked and Antonio smiled, “Dork.” breathed out.

Francis smirked and then opened Antonio's legs, positioning himself between them. He started to kiss the tanned slim belly, to pass his tongue on the iliac crest and the sign of his hips, kissing the cup of the thighs and sucking its softest spot. Antonio jerked, eyes widened, breath cut out and Francis gave a knowingly naughty look.

He walked straight into the wolf's lair.

Francis sucked again, making Antonio's legs tremble and burn – sparks freezing and firing up his spine with pleasure. He arched his back, allowing Francis to see even better. He could suddenly feel the tongue caressing the ring of his orifice, teasing it, courting it, with the delicate and sensual touch one would use to seduce a maiden.

He panted, biting his lips to the blood, while Francis' tongue entered, making space inside his ass, tickling its walls with hot desire. “Please... - he whimpered, his voice failing and melting into a moan – Please.”

But Francis didn't plan to use his fingers yet. Instead he started to move more, making his movements more and more precise going deeper, until he could feel Antonio arching and moving against him, arousal mixed with frustration.

He exited slowly and substituted his tongue with fingers. Antonio's breath tilted, because the fingers were slightly colder, but as Francis' other hand went on his shaft and started pumping, he screamed in delight. He suffocated another moan as he felt Francis' fingers stretch him, curving slightly, searching for his sweet spot and, Antonio lolled his eyes back, tormenting it.

Francis smirked evilly, noticing how Antonio enjoyed it, and alternated a slow, teasing rhythm to a crescendo, pressing stronger and stronger, tasting the way Antonio's chest bent, his lungs filled with air, his back arching, his legs shivering. He could feed off just that, that sick and sublime satisfaction of feeling the pulsating, hot flesh begging him for more.

Antonio felt fire filling him, he panted, struggling. He didn't even need Francis to touch his dick by then. He felt as if his prostate was melting in the heat. Desire pooled in his erection, begging for release.

Francis smirked, smug, raising an eyebrow, “Still convinced of the no penetration part?”

Antonio's tongue was hanging out of his panting mouth, making him feel not much different from a horny, desperate dog. He nodded, holding onto his pride more than his pleasure by then.

Francis seemed to enjoy the clear arousal on the denying boy’s face and pushed one more finger inside, pressing hard on Antonio's boiling prostate. In a couple of thrusts, Antonio jerked his hips and came, staining himself and the bed in thick white cum.

The Frenchman licked it away, slowly – Antonio stared at him, still hardly breathing, trying to calm his heart rate, uselessly, since Francis, with the smug grin of one close to victory, licked the head of his cock.

Antonio arched his feet, opening his legs more as to welcome him unconsciously.

He jerked his head back and shouted in pleasure, while Francis' big tongue danced over his tip, sweetly torturing it. He could feel his hand jerking the base, so that his whole erection was throbbing in desire and need.

He clung onto the sheet, pleading himself not to scream.

Francis' eyes shone in a gleam of drunken power, he held down Antonio's legs and deep throated his erection whole. The brunette whined in pleasure, bit his lips, feeling Francis' throat against his tip, feeling the warmth, the softness, the wetness. Everything was perfect and felt godly.

His voice came undone, when Francis started to move up and down, while sucking him deeply and strongly.

Antonio felt his sounds melting in a squirmy, needy and slutty mess of moans, curses and needs. His hips bucketed into Francis' mouth, jerking wildly, while Francis sucked on him, merciless and perfect, letting Antonio's cock melt again, in a desperate cry and a liberatory orgasm.

Francis swallowed with a guttural sound. His blue eyes lingered on Antonio's naked amber skin; they felt like flames burning him.

Antonio shivered, then his eyes fell on Francis' erection, huge and throbbing, needy of relief.

Without even commenting, Antonio turned. Francis smirked, but he didn't plan to let Antonio have his win yet.

He kissed Antonio's full butt cheeks, so soft and tender. He bit them, feeling the tender flesh under his teeth.

Antonio let out a deep whimper, squirming, moaning, while Francis started to rub his cock between his cheeks, first slowly, then reaching the tempo of a real, complete thrust. Antonio turned, confused: did he just plan to stay out?

As he looked at Francis, he saw him with a smug, wide, smile.

Fuck it. He wanted him to beg for it.

Antonio swallowed, trying to keep firmer and stubborn, but Francis started to move faster, thrusting harder. His hands held Antonio's hips, kept him tight. He could feel the pressure of the fingers sinking in him, the big thick cock rubbing against him, the balls slamming against his entrance at each movement.

He could feel his asshole, empty, needy.

He clenched his teeth, “Oh, c'mon... please...” His voice got small, thin, yet the desire made it low and wavery.

“Please what?”

“Lipst-”

Antonio got interrupted abruptly, with a slam on his ass, then another slap. He tensed, stiffened, shocks running through his spine again, as he moaned loudly. At the third slap, he felt Francis' erection pushing on his entrance. He felt his walls tensing, pulling, yet welcoming it, eager, desperate for it.

Francis made sure to put a hand on Antonio's stomach and one on his hips, keeping him safe and comfortable, then started to push slowly in and Antonio let out a wet, unraveled groan, melted in a ripe whine.

He writhed; his legs weak, while inch by inch Francis' cock filled him beyond his limit, making him feel full. His whole body felt boneless, muscles giving up. He could feel just the heat, the fire in his ass, filling him.

Francis stood straight behind him and gulped, slowly, his voice sounded hoarse in arousal. Oh, finally he was also losing control.

Antonio smirked. Francis kissed his back and warned him, “I'll start moving.”

“I thought I had to wait forever...” Antonio panted, his voice dry and impatient.

And then he moved.

He felt like fainting, his whole body shaken to the root. The delicate touch of the fingers was completely forgotten, leaving space for intense thrusts, deep and ferocious. He could feel Francis' balls slap on him, his whole shaft pushing through his muscles, in and out, deeper and deeper. 

Antonio let out a scream, then another, a plea, a curse, his voice broken in urge and arousal, as Francis moved harder, faster, sinking into his ass without mercy nor regards. Antonio felt on the verge of melting, his head went dizzy, his sight white, everything was just pleasure – blind and raw – and the furiously wonderful sensation of being fucked so deeply his body was rootless and melted.

Francis held onto his hips tighter, pulling him closer, while his rhythm got faster, needier. He could feel himself being close; Antonio felt incredible: warm as hell, as heaven soft. He couldn't desire for more than just filling him, breaking him and then keeping him forever. 

His voice was pure, thawed, liquefied urge. He was passion, desire, temptation.

He was the sea, he was the red.

Francis bucketed into him harder, pushing furiously his hips, enjoying the sight of Antonio whimpering, shivering on the verge of losing himself. He started to rock into Antonio's sweetest spot, to ram into it and Antonio lost all resistance.

His legs fell weak, but Francis kept him in position, slamming into the prostate more and more, making Antonio shout in pleasure at every single thrust, his tongue again out, needy and slutty, his ass burning with need.

With another rock, Francis hit it again and Antonio screamed, coming again, soon followed by the Frenchman, who, with another couple of slower movements and a grunt, emptied himself into that heavenly cave.

He let Antonio fall gently on the bed and he laid next to him, abandoning himself in the soft sheets. Antonio's eyes were closed, but he smiled, happy and tired.

“Whoa...”

Francis smiled too, looking at him, “Whoa indeed.”

“How long are you gonna stay here, just so I prepare psychologically to give up all of this good sex?”

Francis laughed, snorting again. He flushed in embarrassment, but Antonio liked it and kissed his cheek. Francis' eyes opened and closed slowly, he breathed out sadly, “I am not sure how long I can stay, actually...”

“Until you finish the book? - Francis nodded so Antonio continued – Then could I borrow some, I don’t know... gasoline and a lighter?”

Francis laughed again, looking at Antonio as if there were nothing better in the world, so shining and perfect. He was the salt, making the wind of the sea intense.

“Well, I can write them anywhere, I guess.” he smiled, enchanted by the way Antonio's eyes shone.

“I think you need an official taster too.”

“Absolutely.” he murmured, kissing Antonio's nose.

The Spaniard grinned like a kid, “... also a strawberry pusher.”

Francis was about to answer when something shut him up. Bata jumped over him and put his paw on his face, meowing loudly, requiring immediate cuddles. Francis took him off his face and looked at him straight, trying to scold the cat, but ultimately failing in front of the bright blue eyes and a purring sound.

He sighed and gave up, petting him.

Antonio smiled, hiding his face behind the pillow corner and whispering again “Dork...”

 


End file.
